


Out of the Dark They Carry my Heart

by WednesdaysDaughter



Series: From Stone to Stars [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon Dialogue, Culture Shock, F/M, Falling In Love, Flirting, Fluff, Love Confessions, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22135198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WednesdaysDaughter/pseuds/WednesdaysDaughter
Summary: The outside world keeps throwing her for a loop as she listens to Duncan's orders. Despite the gravity of the situation she's unable to resist teasing Alistair when he refuses to put on a dress and dance the Remigold. His playful reply lays the foundation for something new and terrifying.“For you maybe, but it has to be a pretty dress.”Surrounded by men and women ready to lay down their lives to stop the darkspawn Lisbeth experiences a brief moment of panic, a sensational exclamation lighting up the back of her mind when Alistair smirks at her.‘Oh shit.’
Relationships: Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Female Aeducan/Alistair (Dragon Age)
Series: From Stone to Stars [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1037115
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Out of the Dark They Carry my Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I ended up redoing my initial canon and so I have to go and re-write my other DAO fic when I don't make Ali king, but this one has been sitting in my drafts for so long I figured it'd be a nice way to get back into the swing of things. 
> 
> The Aeducan origin is my absolute favorite and idk what happens in DA4 I will never, ever, change my actual Warden backstory. Now maybe I'll end up redoing parts of my canon run (again), but I'm definitely not complaining. The only hero I haven't locked down is my Hawke. 
> 
> I can't draw to save my life so I'm forced to show my love & affection by writing and posting screenshots on my Tumblr.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy! (I wish there were more dwarf wardens out there)

The stories didn’t do it justice.

They must think her simple, eyes wide and head jerking from side to side in hopes of catching all the sights the surface world has to offer. The grass tickles her bare feet and she mourns for the sensation when she enters the ruins and is met with the familiar feel of stone. The green of the trees does not translate well in the ancient tomes rotting in Orzammar. Stray hairs whirling in the breeze kiss her dirt-streaked face, pulling her attention towards two men arguing to her right.

His armor gives him away.

Lisbeth had been raised that first impressions were important; they could make or break alliances before trade talks even began. That said she’s sure no one at court could’ve prepared her for the following introduction.

“You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”

‘ _He’s mad,_ ’ she thinks briefly and blesses her brain-to-mouth filter that kicks in before she can completely butcher the exchange.

“You are a very strange human.”

He laughs, covering her sigh of relief before getting straight to business. Overall she manages not to make a fool of herself and not once does he mention her lack of essentials. She assures him that darkspawn are nothing new to her.

“I can handle myself better than most – I had my own command for a time.”

“Color me impressed! You’re from Orzammar I take it?”

Lisbeth nods and he falls in step next to her, “Duncan came looking for recruits and I jumped at the chance.”

It’s not the whole truth, but the smile it earns her makes the omission palatable. The betrayal is still too fresh and there’s no telling what he’d say if he knew the truth behind her current circumstances.

“Let’s go find Duncan and the others shall we?”

“I look forward to traveling with you Alistair.”

Her honest reply seems to surprise them both and Lisbeth spends her time staring at the flowers they pass in silence until the baying of the hounds pull her from a daydream. They’re much bigger than she’d ever imagined and could probably bite her face off if provoked. Alistair watches on as she’s talked into entering the pen to muzzle a sick mabari.

The intelligence in his eyes steadies her hands as she slips the device over his mouth, “Shh, boy it’s okay.”

He lies down and watches her go: Lisbeth leaves the pen feeling as if she passed some sort of test. She takes her place at Alistair’s side and feels herself shrinking beneath his steady gaze, “What?” she asks defensively.

“Darkspawn and mabari, is there anything you can bend to your will?”

“Wily Grey Wardens,” she mumbles brushing past him to stand in front of Duncan and the other two recruits. He plants himself firmly next to her and she can practically feel the amusement rolling off his body.

“Did you hear that Duncan? She thinks I’m _wily_ ,” Alistair preens.

“Give her time to know you Alistair,” Duncan deadpans and Lisbeth has to bite her bottom lip to hide the smile that spreads across her face when Alistair sticks out his tongue.

The levity evaporates when their mission is made clear and with each step towards the gate time speeds up until they’re knee-deep in darkspawn. Lisbeth leaps over corpses, unhindered by heavy soles and plunges the rusty daggers into the creature’s chest: Its dying screech echoes throughout the clearing. Lisbeth shoves herself off the body and can feel the blood spatter dripping down her chin.

“Do all dwarves flight like that?”

Daveth and Jory stand star-struck to her right but her reply is lost when she sees Alistair with a pair of leather boots in his hand. He looks down at his fortunate find and flushes, shrugging and fidgeting beneath her wide eyes.

“I thought you’d need these, but after seeing how quick you were perhaps you’re better off without them.”

Lisbeth leaves her weapons buried in darkspawn flesh and reaches out to take the boots he suddenly seems reluctant to give her.

“Thank you.”

The unfamiliar chirping of birds fade into the background until Jory coughs and the spell is broken. Cheeks warm, Lisbeth sits on a log nearby to pull the boots over her mud-caked feet. They’re too big of course, but not by much. She recalls the bodies they’d encountered not far from the gate – one of them had been a woman.

‘ _When did he…?_ ’ her thoughts are broken when her eyes catch the patch of white flora near a pond across the way. Daveth’s ready with her daggers and once she’s tucked the flowers into her belt they continue deeper into the Wilds. Alistair seems content to hang back as Lisbeth naturally takes the lead.

Meeting the supposed Witch of the Wilds throws the men for a loop, but Lisbeth takes it in stride. Morrigan speaks as if she’s letting her in on a secret and there are more terrifying things than apostates in the depths of the Deep Roads. Lisbeth says as much – going as far as to incline her head in respect during introductions.

“You are an odd one.”

Lisbeth doesn’t have the chance to reply because Daveth winces when Alistair elbows him sharply in the ribs.

“Indeed,” Morrigan agrees not looking away from Lisbeth’s grateful smile before leading them to her mother Flemeth.

She’d be the first to admit that when she woke to her first morning free of the mountain’s shelter Lisbeth did not expect anything would be easy; especially given the path she’d chosen to walk. However the headache that followed her back to camp after playing games with two witches was not something she could’ve been expected to foresee.

The only mage she had met before them had been Wynn back at Ostagar and she’d been downright pleasant to speak with.

She lets the others head to Duncan’s tent as she detours to the mabari pen. The handler is grateful for the flowers and Lisbeth is almost tempted to ask if she can have the ill hound. The sound of armor locking into place and swords being sharpened overtakes nature’s natural symphony and settles over Lisbeth like the sound of hammers on anvils. War is no place for a dog no matter what these crazy men say.

“It’s time for the Joining,” Alistair looks pale and if it hadn’t sounded ominous already the look on his face would’ve sounded the warning bells in Lisbeth’s mind.

“I’m ready.”

She was not ready.

Darkspawn blood tastes sour, nothing like her own that’s come from broken noses and busted lips. The water Alistair brings her does nothing to rid her mouth of the foul tang in the back of her throat, but she thanks him nonetheless.

The pendant hangs between her breasts, tucked beneath her latest armor Duncan had procured for her. She also noticed the new daggers lying next to her boots and can tell by his sheepish grin when she holds them up for him to see that Alistair’s to blame for that secondary act of kindness.

“You keep trying to outfit me I might get the wrong impression,” she teases looking up at him, skin glowing under the approaching fire.

“Is that so?”

“Indeed, hasn’t anyone ever told you not to insult a woman’s apparel?”

“I must have slept through that lesson at the Chantry,” Alistair muses and there’s a story Lisbeth wants to know though it’s not the right time.

“I hope you won’t take offense however. You need proper gear if you’re to survive this battle. You just became a Gray Warden and I’d hate to see you fall because your weapons turned to dust in a darkspawn’s chest.”

Lisbeth has a million replies at the tip of her tongue but the sincerity in his voice stops her short, leaving her reeling at this man she’d met hours ago.

‘ _No one is that… considerate_ ,’ she accuses internally, but when she catches sight of Duncan – the man who believed in her innocence when no one else did – Lisbeth shakes her head and does her best to keep up with Alistair.

The outside world keeps throwing her for a loop as she listens to Duncan's orders. Despite the gravity of the situation she's unable to resist teasing Alistair when he refuses to put on a dress and dance the Remigold. His playful reply lays the foundation for something new and terrifying.

“For you maybe, but it has to be a pretty dress.”

Surrounded by men and women ready to lay down their lives to stop the darkspawn Lisbeth experiences a brief moment of panic, a sensational exclamation lighting up the back of her mind when Alistair smirks at her.

‘ _Oh shit_.’

\- - - - - - - - - -

Waking up is the first surprise of the day.

Finding out that she and Alistair were the only ones to survive is the second, and third, and fourth… the weight of those lives hanging over Lisbeth’s head like a cave-in. She recalls the last time she saw Duncan’s face and the silent promise she made to light the beacon and join him on the battlefield. Another broken promise to a ghost; she wants to crawl back into bed and sleep away the regret.

Her genuine thanks causes Morrigan to pause and trip over an offer to prepare something to eat. Being rushed out of the cabin does little dampen Lisbeth’s spirits when she sees Alistair standing tall – she couldn’t even begin to guess what he was thinking. Flemeth draws attention to her awakened state and the relief is clear on his face.

“You… you’re alive. I thought you were dead for sure.”

“I’m fine, I appreciate your concern.”

There’s more she wants to say, but present company makes her swallow the concern she desperately wants to convey. They gravitate towards each other and leave with another ally. It takes a little convincing, but eventually Alistair agrees that Morrigan could be of use.

“We have three treaties and a lot of land to cover. We should get going.”

There are holes in Lisbeth’s tunic, small ones that were not worth mending though the tears that would’ve rendered her clothing unfit had clearly been stitched together. Instead of thanking Morrigan once more, Lisbeth splits a sweet roll with her on the outskirts of Lothering. Before she can enjoy it however, a mabari comes bounding down the road and Lisbeth knows him instantly.

They make quick work of the darkspawn and soon a plan is set in motion to head towards Denerim and the Circle of Magic. The thought of returning to Orzammar makes Lisbeth’s skin crawl and perhaps Alistair can sense her hesitation because he doesn’t bring up the treaties again. Trouble tumbles across their path, however luck follows closely and they leave the crumbling village with two others willing to fight the Blight.

Pockets lighter, Lisbeth thinks back to the boy at the bridge whose mother didn’t make it. Gold can’t bring her back, but it can keep food in his belly. Leliana assured her one of the sisters would care for the child and no one said anything when Lisbeth offered to help bury the body after her belongings had been stored for an uncertain future.

“Children should outlive their parents, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less,” Lisbeth says to the wind and they set up camp shortly after the sun has gone down.

Nothing could’ve prepared her for the star-filled sky.

“By the ancestors,” she mumbles voice dripping with reverence for the lights above. If her eyes widened any more they’d pop out of her skull. Tents are pitched and a fire brought to life all while Lisbeth stares in awe, searching for patterns to make sense of the chaotic sprinkling of white against black.

Exhaustion pounds down her back like a battering ram at an impenetrable gate until her legs eventually give and she sits on the cold grass eyes never faltering. She can hear Morrigan say something about food and for the first time she ignores her protesting stomach in favor of simply existing. Sten calls out to her and eventually the dog she promptly named ‘Grunt’ (the nickname bore proudly by an old dwarven hero) trots up and takes hold of her pant leg.

“I’ll be there in a minute boy,” she shoos him away halfheartedly. Grunt huffs and plops down on her right, providing her warmth as the night chill settles over the clearing.

“I have never seen a mabari bond so quickly with someone – it’s remarkable.”

Lisbeth startles at Alistair’s voice and cups her hands in time when he places a warm bowl into them before settling next to her.

“Someone like me you mean?” she asks, “a dwarf.”

“Nope,” he pops the ‘p’ dramatically and digs into his dinner. She waits for him to continue, but it becomes obvious by the way he eats with gusto that she’s not getting anything out of him for a while so she follows suit. Her dignity does not allow her to lick the bowl but that doesn’t seem to stop Alistair who gives it a good try.

Her laugh stops him and she can barely make out the bright flush that disappears into his shirt.

“Where are my manners? Can’t have you thinking us common folk don’t know how to behave,” he straightens his back and pretends to put on airs for her and Lisbeth has half a mind to tell him to shove off when something clicks.

“I never told you I was royalty.”

He winces, “Duncan might have mentioned it after I poked and prodded and poked some more.”

She hums, wondering what else he knows but Alistair is quick to assure her. “He wouldn’t tell me anything else. Said if I wanted to whole story to ask you, but I didn’t want to pry. I get the feeling it’s not a story you want to tell.”

“That’s very astute of you.”

His chuckle holds more self-deprecation than she thought him possible of expressing, “Don’t let the attitude fool you my lady. I may act as if I have no clue what I’m doing but it’s all an act.”

“You are a very strange human,” Lisbeth reiterates and lets his laugh wash over her.

“Coming from you I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She can feel his eyes on her as silence descends upon the clearing and tries not to squirm beneath the attention. Seconds tick by until Alistair clears his throat and inches closer so the heat from his body sinks into Lisbeth’s left arm.

“If you look over that bunch of trees you can see the Sword of Mercy, its tip just barely touching the southern hills.”

“The what?”

“Most call it Judex. Not the nicest of constellations I’ll admit; its origins have something to do with justice in ancient Tevinter. Guilty verdict I believe,” Alistair cocks his head as if to shake the information loose.

“You see shapes up there?”

The disbelief in Lisbeth’s voice begins an hour-long tutoring session about the stories people had crafted to make sense of the vast unknown above. From dragons to shield maidens, Lisbeth listened with rapt fascination as Alistair spun tale after tale.

Eventually a yawn interrupts the lesson and reluctantly their steps diverge to separate tents. Lisbeth pulls the flap back and then turns, calling out to Alistair across the fire.

“Same time tomorrow?”

His eyes dart from the stars to her face and his smile plays havoc with her pulse once more, “As you wish.”

In the following days Lisbeth and the other attempt to settle into a routine which proves difficult with the random pockets of darkspawn attacks disrupting the journey. When they arrive at the Circle Lisbeth is happy to see Wynne, even more so when the mage offers to travel with them.

They pick up an assassin on the way to Denerim and Zevran does his best to charm his way into Lisbeth’s good graces. However after catching her and Alistair one night as they resumed their astronomy lessons his flirtations lessen until he found joy in ruffling Alistair’s feathers with casual winks and sparring tips involving physical contact.

Alistair sputters and spins on his heels to the opposite side of the fire when he catches sight of Lisbeth pinned beneath Zevran after she’d let her guard down. The glow does little to hide the flush dusting his ears which Lisbeth noted were faintly pointed as if elf blood were introduced into his linage some ancestors ago. Zevran’s chuckle pulls her from her musings and he helps her stand when Leliana approaches with dinner.

“You shouldn’t goad him on you know,” she admonishes although it doesn’t seem to have the desired effect when Zevran shrugs with each backwards step to his tent.

“It is the end of the world, haven’t you heard? There is no excuse for hesitating.”

Leliana is a fountain of patience, but Lisbeth is surprised at her sharp scoff and rolling eyes.

“Not everyone has your confidence Zevran; dark times do not condone a lack of courtesy.”

Lisbeth quietly slides away before she can be dragged into another code of conduct debate. She’d had enough of that while traveling with Wynne in the Brecilian Forest. Her arm twinged beneath its fresh gauze from a werewolf attack. While she wasn’t in danger from the curse turning her into a creature of the night, the wound made her reflexes sluggish which was worse in her mind.

Her eyes automatically turn to Alistair’s usual spot, but it is empty.

Morrigan and Sten have retired for the night so Lisbeth turns to Wynne who gestures over her shoulder to the bushes behind her tent that lead their bathing stream. Disappointed, Lisbeth musters a smile in thanks before slinking to the outskirts of the circle where Grunt chews blissfully on a deer bone.

“Scooch over boy,” she mumbles, her tone drawing his attention away from his treat. Grunt whines softly as she plays with the meat in her bowl. They are three days travel from Redcliffe and it was not the first night since she declared it to be their next destination that Alistair vanished after sunset.

‘ _He’s hiding something_ ,’ she rolls her lower lip between her teeth and fights the familiar sting of hurt until she cannot feel the burn in her throat. She’s familiar with secrets herself and wouldn’t begrudge anyone their privacy. All of them, except Grunt of course, speak with omissions between sentences; stories half told and for good reason. She is no more entitled to their past than they are to hers, but trust is something she’d like to feel again and it aches to realize she had already started to – with Alistair.

Come sunrise they are on the move, Lisbeth awaking to the sensation of a cloak sliding off her chilled body. She’d fallen asleep with Grunt; her back protesting with every movement she makes over to her tent, which has already been packed. Blinking slowly, Lisbeth pulls the cloak off her back until she can make out its familiar faded blue clutched in sore fists.

The culprit is deliberately avoiding her stare as he endures Morrigan’s prickly commentary so she decides to let the gesture go until they stop two nights later and she takes over meal prep. During one of their nightly lessons Alistair had admitted the cook at Arl Eamon’s estate took a shine to him and did her best to prepare his favorite stew once a week: Twice if he’d earned Isolde’s ire.

A delicious aroma fills the clearing and when his gasp hits her ears, Lisbeth glances up quick enough for their eyes to meet before returning her attention to the pot. Leliana and Wynne share their appreciation and Sten’s sharp nod fills her with unprecedented warmth. Morrigan helped her earlier in the day look for the herbs needed and her praise is crafted with a sincerity she uses more often in their daily interactions. When Zevran brings Alistair a bowl, for he had not moved an inch since Lisbeth began, he notices the wet shine in Alistair’s eyes and mentally concedes to the victor with a soft smile no one sees.

Later, after dishes had been cleaned and the fire fed, Alistair takes his place next to Lisbeth at the edge of the camp – his cloak falling gently upon her shoulders – and he points to the constellation directly above their heads.

“The Lovers,” he breathes and she wonders if he can hear the staccato thuds of her heart that threatens to disrupt night’s hush.

“Does this one have a happy ending?”

The insects seem to hold their breath; even the crackling fire has decided to munch on the fresh firewood with gentle teeth so as not to miss Alistair’s reply.

“I hope so,” his warm voice, a prayer to his Maker, sets her pulse into overdrive and the very ground beneath her seems to vibrate with a sentience she’d not felt since leaving home.

Taking initiative, Lisbeth shifts until her body is pressed against his – resting her head just below his shoulder. Collectively they release twin sighs of relief and the world around them seems to echo a similar sentiment. Glitterbugs fill the clearing with their yellow light as if they’d fallen from the sky long ago and when Alistair tilts his head to rest comfortably on top of hers, Lisbeth feels as if she’s falling into the abyss.

Mid-day finds them on the outskirts of Redcliff when he casually tosses a jar of enraged bees at her feet.

Her face must do something bizarre because he takes a step back as if expecting an attack. She can feel Wynne and Leliana hovering in the background; their hushed whispers floating on the wind that tickles her warm ears. Taking a deep breath she shoves the conflicting tempest whirling around her brain into a closet to be examined later.

“I understand.”

She almost smiles at the dumbstruck look on his face, but she softens her countenance in hopes of conveying her sincerity. Telling her took courage and it reminds her sharply of the moments beneath the stars when she almost told him everything. The sharpness of Bhelen’s betrayal had dulled into a pulsating bruise beneath Alistair’s shy affections until her tongue stung behind her clenched teeth.

So he’s the bastard heir to the Ferelden throne? She’s the murderous exiled princess of Orzammar. ‘ _Quite the pair we make_ ,’ she thinks fondly.

Lisbeth swears in that moment to duplicate his courage when the moment presented itself; she wants him to know her – every facet good and bad.

“Now can we move on and I’ll just pretend you still think I’m some nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens.”

Unintentionally she jolts back as if struck and the vehemence of her reply makes his eyes shine in the sun’s light.

“That’s not what you really think is it?”

He reaches out and gently sweeps an unruly strand of golden hair behind her ear and Lisbeth is afraid to exhale in case he flees.

“Well… no. What I really think is that I was lucky to survive with you.”

She wants to pull his hand to her chest and let him feel the wild beats of her heart beneath the leather armor, but a runner interrupts the moment with dire news. His crooked smile seems to echo her unsaid frustration, but nevertheless she lets the moment go and steps back into the role she chose. 

Three nights later on their way to the Circle Alistair presents her with a vivid rose whose red hue rivals the blush splashed across her tattooed cheeks.

“I remember thinking how could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness.”

While she is no stranger to courting, Alistair’s tender gaze and earnest words leave their clumsy attempts in the dregs of Dust Town to never be thought of again.

He calls her rare and wonderful, stealing her ability to breathe until he looks down suddenly cautious and lacking the conviction he approached her with once the others had retired.

“I know it might sound strange considering we haven’t known each other for very long, but I’ve come to care for you a great deal. I think it’s because we’ve gone through so much together. I don’t know or maybe I’m imaging it; maybe I’m fooling myself.”

He sounds despondent, refusing to look her in the eyes and focusing instead on her nose, eyes drifting down to her faintly parted lips. They ache beneath the weight of his gaze, itching to be pressed against his.

“Am I fooling myself? Or do you think that you might ever feel the same way about me?

Lacking hesitation, Lisbeth reaches out with her empty hand and clutches his forearm as if she’d float away into the endless sky: A welcome tether in this chaotic existence.

“Oh Alistair, of course I do.”

She pulls him gently downwards and her eyes slide shut before she can see the brilliant relief on his face, but she tastes it on his lips until she can no longer be without air. Honey lingers on her tongue from the sweet rolls they’d eaten moments before he’d pulled her aside.

Opening her eyes feels like waking in the fade; hazy and heavy with things her mind could not possibly comprehend. Coming to the surface had forced her to confront how isolated her life had been beneath the mountain of her forefathers. She misses the hum of the stone, but a new melody has taken its place tied to Alistair who brushes his nose gently against hers, mimicking the feel of a butterfly’s wings.

She opens her mouth to say something incredibly sentimental, but his dismayed cry breaks the hazy into tiny little pieces.

“Your hand!”

Lisbeth finally registers the minor sting from the rose’s thorns digging into her calloused fingers. Flushing in embarrassment Lisbeth tries to wave away his concern and fails to form words when he brings her hand to his mouth.

Alistair’s tongue touches the first puncture wound and Lisbeth can feel her very spirit threaten to leave her body and return to the halls of her ancestors. His eyes dart up and the heat in them causes her to faintly think there is no way he’s as sheltered as the Chantry would have outsiders believe.

“I suppose that wasn’t very sanitary,” he admits after his brain has caught up to his body. His flustered chuckle causes Lisbeth’s heart to swell with affection.

“I don’t mind, but perhaps for more serious injuries we ought to let Wynne do the healing.”

He laughs, “Perhaps you’re right.”

They settle into an easy silence unburdened and unwilling to do more than stare at each other as if creating a permanent etching in their minds.

Suddenly Lisbeth picks up on movement in the corner of her eye and pulls Alistair behind her; dagger in one hand – rose in the other.

When her ears pick up the familiar gossiping tones of Leliana and Zevran she sighs in defeat and sheathes her weapon. Alistair must hear what she does because he suddenly coughs and the campfire pales in comparison to the red glow of his blood pulsing behind his cheeks.

“Um yes… well then, we should retire for the night: Lots to do and all that.”

Rolling her eyes, Lisbeth pulls Alistair back into the circle of tents and bids him goodnight, but not before pulling him down once more for a tender peck against the corner of his mouth.

“Sweet dreams Alistair,” she cannot resist winking before making her way to her tent on the other side of the fire. If her hips sway a little more than normally she cannot be held accountable especially when she hears his choked reply.

“Sweet dreams indeed, you minx.”

Lisbeth slides into her bedroll and her dreams are flashes of tan skin, brilliant smiles, and the engulfing warmth of a first kiss beneath the speckled sky that had stolen her heart weeks ago.

No, the stories didn’t do it justice and that was just fine with her.

**Author's Note:**

> So, Warm Whispers by Missy Higgins owns my soul and definitely fits these two crazy kids. I actually was so inspired by writing this that I finally made a Spotify playlist of songs for them... yeah I'm a little immersed in DA right now. Give it a few months and I'll be back to writing about Dana Shepard & Garrus Vakarian.


End file.
